


Things to Say Out Loud

by Stivvy



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Pain, Suicidal Thoughts, don't hate me, more tags to be added along the way, post 5A, references to past canon events, so much pain, trying to fix things guys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2015-10-14
Packaged: 2018-04-26 10:00:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5000458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stivvy/pseuds/Stivvy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you fuck up so bad there's no going back, but the only one who can't forgive you is yourself.<br/>And when the boy you thought you knew turns back into something so dark you can barely see him anymore, but you sure as hell still feel him. </p><p>(this is not a stiles coddling/abuse apologist work, but I won't hate on him either. bb just needs to be fixed dammit.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things to Say Out Loud

**Author's Note:**

> Like everyone, my scilesy heart is torn up and devastated by the recent preview of the new season. This might not seem like what you need right now, but I promise by the end to satisfy all of our desires to see this bullshit worked through- gutted open and stitched back together like the horrible taxidermic display it is. Bear with me, here we go.

He tried to drown out the pounding in his ears with the cool spray of the shower. When the shivers became too much he relented, releasing the handle he'd been clinging to and easing it towards the center. Hopeless words still rang in his ears and left tremors in his bones. Stiles lifted a wrinkled knuckle and wiped at the tears that mingled on his upper lip with the relentless spray from above. He scowled at the salty bitterness he tasted and felt inside, squeezing his eyes shut when a sob wracked his body for the third time since he'd stumbled over the ledge and onto the cold white porcelain. The water dripped heavily through his eyelashes, and he let it burn as it ran over his cried-out, angry red cornea. If he could stomach any more blood he would tear the eyes from his skull. Anything to take back the sights he'd seen in the last few hours.

His breathing was still shallow despite the steam building in the tiny cream colored room, and every few seconds he could feel his cracked heart flutter feebly against the crushing weight that had built a home on his chest. A nest, actually. A nest of broken, spiky, violent guilt that had the decency to stay on the inside until it didn't. Until it started poking through the patchwork walls of sarcasm and self righteous fidelity, weaving itself into the fabric of his being like a sinister weed. Like a nasty whisper you can't make out until it's so imprinted on your thoughts that you can't help but make it a part of you. You can't help but let it in, let it be. Well, he was sick of it. Sick of fucking up. Sick of giving in to dark voices in his heart, of walking a path that could only lead right off a cliff. Sick of feeling broken and angry and helpless and wrong. Always so fucking wrong. Faces whirred by on the out-of-focus, spinning track of his mind, fresh stabs of pain hitting his gut with the memory attached to each one. Memories of his failures. Images of his body doing things that make him heave frantically forward and clutch the walls, hands sliding down jerkily as they slip between the soaked tiles and unintentionally push the lever to the left.

Burning water assaulted the back of his neck, leaving bright red splotches where it landed fitfully and sharply, but he let it. He wanted some pain on the outside to match the erosion he felt boring at his insides, but it wasn't enough. Sighing heavily he lifted his dripping face to the spray and let it wash over his eyes, his nose, his open and foolish mouth, as if he could boil away the words he had let pass through it less than an hour ago. Cupping his traitorous hands at his chin he plunged his face into the warm wet bowl he had made, wondering how long he could hold his breath before he passed out. Accidental drowning in the shower was pretty common, right? Fuck no. Throwing the water at his feet, Stiles punched at the shower knob. There was no getting out of this one. No more excuses, no more blame, no more weak pussy outbursts. This time he was going to talk, and Scott was going to listen. A deep shiver wracked his bones making his whole body shudder, and Stiles stepped out onto the cold, hard floor.

He moved through his room like a zombie, staring at his closet and seeing nothing but black. Dropping the towel from around his waist he stepped into clothes one leg at a time, feeling the scrape of the denim and scratch of fabric from a disconnected place, his hands numb as if they belonged to someone else. He wished they did. The night hung heavy and dark outside his thin window pane but he felt it in his bones, the shady and cloud speckled moon judging him from her heights. It was judgment that he resented, but was beginning to understand he desperately deserved. Glancing quickly at the bright green numbers of his clock radio, Stiles took a deep breath and turned to leave the loud silence of his room.

The chill outside was unexpected, and he tugged at the strings of his hoodie to keep out the bite. Picking up the pace Stiles jogged soundlessly down the darkened street, eyes darting to the unknown at his sides out of habit when he passed by a stretch of trees. He was hoping to give himself time to think, hoping that the breeze and adrenaline would help his thoughts form coherent sentences. It wasn't working at all. He tried making lists, highlighting words in his mind so that he wouldn't forget, repeating to himself the things he knew Scott needed to hear. Things he needed to make himself hear. Things he needed to say out loud, clearly and completely.

He came to a stop to catch his breath, tears stinging his cheeks from the cold, chest aching like a smoker who just ran a marathon. Stiles let his hips fold and sink to the ground, catching himself on his fingertips before settling into a crouch on the side of the road. If he couldn't get it together before he saw Scott, he knew he'd never get the words out. He rubbed his face roughly, streaking tears and dust through his eyelashes and between his lips as he gulped in the fresh, cool air. He sniffed loudly and tasted the tangy mix of tears and snot, streaking the side of his sleeve with it. A full minute later he was back on his feet, pushing himself forward while his instincts held him back, determined to maintain some measure of control over his self-mutilated pride. Pebbles scattered on the cement behind him as he stumbled back onto the path, feet leading and heart dragging heavily in his gut.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I hope that came off as ambiguous as I wanted it to, but just a reminder: the plan is for Stiles to face his demons and defeat them, not continue to excuse and deny it all. Have patience, and remember- comments and feedback give life.


End file.
